


The Textures of Memories

by gala_apples



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 19:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: When other people go on a date, they can bring home a napkin from the restaurant, or keep a concert ticket. Adam and Eric can’t. Adam finds a way to deal with it.





	The Textures of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'feathers/fabric' for seasonsofkink.

Adam can’t save any real souvenirs. To start off, most of them wouldn’t be sanitary. It’s not like he wants to carry a filled johnny, or a dirty kleenex, or a jar full of come. But even the romantic shit is impossible. Adam will never get a heart shaped box of chocolates. He’ll never be able to give away a rose. Souvenirs of relationships are suspicious. He’s in military school. Random, unscheduled room searches are part of the territory. Not to mention the doors don’t lock, and some of the bad little boys here are nosy. He once heard Bobby tell Jose curiosity killed the cat -and never has a cliche sounded so murderous- and Jose calmly reply ‘but satisfaction brought it back, always quote the whole quotation, fucker,’ before Bobby grabbed a textbook and started beating Jose’s face in with it. As far as Adam’s concerned, Bobby brought it on himself. Let the cat snoop all it wants, Adam’ll give it nothing to find.

So instead he takes pictures. A ton of pictures, one for each time he’s been able to escape with Eric into their own reality. One for each time he’s not useless or wrong or stupid. It stings less, his father loathing every iota of his being, when he knows that Eric likes him. Adam’s never had a girlfriend willing to learn how to drive for him, to beg to borrow a car for his sake. And yet every few weeks Eric makes it to Mast Military School, most of the time in the middle of the night to make it easier for Adam to sneak out. How could he not want tangible proof?

Adam keeps his phone on him at all times. Students at Mast aren’t supposed to have phones, they lack discipline or some such rubbish. Adam doesn’t know or care what the reasoning is. He listens exactly enough to avoid punishment, without making himself a suck-up target to the real authority hating sociopaths here. Finding a phone in his personal effects would earn him huge punishment, hence keeping it on him. Lucky for him, his Coke can dick is in proportion to the rest of his body. He’s got large feet, was able to wheedle a size twelve out of the woman in charge of uniforms and laundry. The burner phone is the smallest and flattest one Eric could find, and it fits well enough between the top of Adam’s foot and his uniform boots, as long as his laces are tied loose. 

Still, he takes a few precautions. He and Eric don’t take selfie style pictures, faces pressed close together with the camera held at an downward angle at the length of his arm. There will be no pictures of painting each others nails, no pictures of the tips of their tongues touching. Adam’s not closeted as much as he’s aware of his surroundings. There’s exactly no one here who’d be friendly if they found out about his orientation: military teachers, psycho students, Dad once he gets called by the retired General running this joint. So, no faces, as handsome as Eric is. Adam’s photos aren’t memories, but things that remind him of memories. 

Adam has a photo of white feathers. Not because they ever did anything interesting in an aviary, but because of the one night they sat on the roof of his dad’s school, shoes crammed into the doorway so it wouldn’t lock them out. Adam had nearly cried, hated himself for nearly crying, wanted to burn the school down for nearly making him cry. But that would have freaked out Eric, so instead of doing so he’d spent hours drawing feathers on Eric’s back, inspired by the boa Eric had casually wrapped around his throat. The same kind of brainless, devotional task as trying to break in to Aimee’s party, except appreciated. The world is a different place when you’re _appreciated_. The drawing wasn’t even Sharpie, just Crayola. It must have smeared off as soon as Eric sweated, or barring that, in the first shower he had. Safer that way. Eric might be out, but it’s the kind of out that doesn’t include his parents being pleased at the idea of a boyfriend. Especially an ex-bully criminal arsewipe. Adam can look at the picture of the feathers and feel the texture of them in his hands, the way they were that night, when they were snogging.

His blurriest picture is that of ripples in a swimming pool. As it turns out, public swimming pools might have no trespassing signs and locks on chain link fences, but they don’t have 24/7 lifeguards for security. Adam’s no Jackson, not some tool who genuinely cares about shaving a fifth of a second off his lap time. Still, who doesn’t like a good dip in the pool? Even more, who doesn’t like shoving a hand down swimming costume and getting someone off? It’s different with Eric, of course, the lurid magenta trunks don’t quite compare to a spandex bikini. Rubbing his knuckles raw against the mesh lining of the trunks while giving Eric a handie was fun, though. Nearly as much fun as Eric stroking his cock in return. It made Adam laugh, imagining all the normal folk pissing into the water tomorrow, having no idea two queers had spunked it up in the middle of the night.

One of Adam’s most viewed pictures is one of a clock from the time he was so late back to school he nearly got caught. Sprinting back to his room before reveille he’d still taken the chance to photograph the mass produced white faced clock hanging in the hallway, one of about a thousand placed throughout the school. The time forever captured is a badge of honour. He and Eric had fucked for the first time that night; proper fucked with arses and everything. Even once the event was over, they’d spent hours laying together, casually touching. All the things Aimee hadn’t been interested in. Looking at the clock brings back vivid memories of the clean cotton sheets against his skin, warmed by the heat of their sweaty bodies, and not wanting to leave, even as the fourth and fifth warning alarms went off on his phone.

Adam’s favourite picture is the one of Eric’s orange beaded and embroidered suit jacket. It’s what was balled under his hips the first time Eric fucked him. Unless it’s the photo of Eric’s fur capelet, the fancy jacket thing he wore the night they broke into an ice hockey rink. Unless it’s the moonlit shot of a case of beer, from the night Eric tied his hands up with a delicate lightweight scarf, telling him with a bit of a slurred voice that the wrinkles would be permanent, but an acceptable price for a no-hands blowjob. 

Adam can’t say what his favourite is, really. Each picture is of Eric, no matter what it’s _really_ a picture of. This is what Eric is to him now. Sex, and stunning clothing, and the first person to actually want him back. Having that is worth the risk of fifty lashes of a whip, or whatever the fuck the General will do when they inevitably find contraband. And he already knows the morning after he’ll get a new phone and find somewhere new to hide it. Adam won’t allow anyone to disconnect him from Eric.


End file.
